Welcome Home
by Callipio
Summary: "John," Sherlock fixed his eyes on the ragged teen sitting on their couch. "Do you realize what you've done?" Parentlock type of fic, my Christmas gift to those digging for a craving. Eventual Johnlock
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock hit the landing in front of apartment 221B with a sigh of relief, drawing a heavy hand over his brow. An hour at Scotland Yard, dealing with Anderson's snark while Sherlock tried valiantly to rein in his frustration and just _get his hands on the toxicology report_ and the subsequent lecture from Detective Inspector Lestrade when Sherlock flung accusations of Anderson's affair with Donovan _and _the reedy underling in the lab with him, within earshot of half of the department.

It hadn't been a very fun afternoon.

In his hands were the case notes that he needed, though, to solve the cold case he was working on for Lestrade. They had an unspoken deal that Sherlock would solve the cold cases in exchange for total access to crime scenes. It made Lestrade feel better about bringing on a 'Consulting Detective' while curbing Sherlock's boredom.

He snapped the flat door firmly behind him, sweeping the scarf and coat off in habitual blindness, focusing instead on the state of the flat. John was in the kitchen, by the sounds of spoons and cups clinking, making tea. Sherlock breathed through his nose, catching the smell of chicken in the oven—strange, that was a bit much for dinner, it wasn't as if it were a holiday, and no one was coming over. There was another stench in the room, older, stirred only by the gust of the opening door.

_Soup,_ Sherlock thought, toeing off his shoes. _How odd, is John star—_

A slurp sounded behind him.

Sherlock froze, listening. A gulp, the sound of scratchy linen and a tell-tale sniff half a second later. _Common cold, cheap, old terrycloth, worn—so, not well off. _A spoon clinked against china, followed by another, quieter slurp. _Self-conscious, wary, but comfortable. _Sherlock expanded his senses to the rest of the flat, putting two and two together.

Still, when he turned around and saw a ragged, dirty little teenager on his couch, he couldn't help but wrinkle his nose.

"John," Sherlock called out, stopping all movement in the kitchen. The boy on the couch froze, shoulders hunching over the bowl. Sherlock stared at the figure, but it didn't turn around.

John was at the doorway in a flash, rubbing his hands on a dishtowel. "Hello Sherlock," he replied evenly, catching his flat-mate's gaze. Sherlock's face contorted into a rough estimation of _John what have you done to my couch can you not see that there it flea-ridden blanket on it I hope you realize the full extent of your actions here. _

John nodded, his face not as defensive now that Sherlock had decided to express himself quietly. They had worked out a way around Sherlock's frightening ability to make himself a walking target in under five seconds by first resorting to body language, and then words. Normally, things worked out better for them both that way.

Sherlock walked around the couch, flicking his eyes over the figure a few times but turning into the kitchen just as the boy looked up. It was enough.

_Dirty, haggard, extremely underweight, torn gloves with cuticles raw and pink. He's come close to frost bite before but learned to save fingers under hot water. Older than I first thought, fifteen, sixteen probably. Looks old enough to be passed off as an adult in some circumstances, but cut his hair back recently and looks his own age. Shoes are old, two sizes too big, not that it matters he's wearing three pairs of socks for warmth, which means he's stealing because at the homeless shelters he would've been given shoes. _

_Homeless. _

Sherlock caught John's eyes head-on, holding on to the back of a chair and glaring at him accusingly. John broke the gaze and checked the chicken. Sherlock's nose twitched at the smell.

"Well now doesn't Doctor Watson—"

"Don't you even want to know his name—"

"has a new pet project to keep his heart—"

"which is ironic, by the way, I thought you'd enjoy—"

"at bay from shredding itself when you walk by all the other ones—"

"making terrible fun of how I just had the biggest soft spot for these things—"

"don't you know rescuing one attracts all the others?"

"but Sherlock, this is different."

Sherlock and John broke off, the former rubbing a hand through his curly hair, the latter planting his hands on the table. Both looked up at the same moment when the floor creaked. The teen framed the doorway, his plaid button-down hanging off his arms, making him look both large and miniscule at the same time.

"I can go, then," the boy shrugged, which was almost lost beneath his clothing. "Thanks for the soup, John."

"No, Hamish," John gestured dismissively at Sherlock, "we weren't talking about you." The boy, _Hamish _of all things, raised an incredulous eyebrow. His jaw ticked in resentment.

"Don't lie to him, John," Sherlock piped up suddenly, turning to switch on the kettle to make his own tea. He could feel John's eyes burning into his shoulder. "We were talking about you."

The room filled with an awkward silence. John cleared his throat, "Yes, we were, Hamish, but it's no problem having you and, as your Doctor, I'm asking you to stay."

"Don't want to cause trouble in paradise." The boy's lackluster response made Sherlock's lips twitch, he could practically hear John bristle at the statement.

"We're not-"

"Hamish, you'll find there's always a spot of trouble around here. Really, you are the least of it."

John fell silent, flabbergasted. Sherlock turned around, tea in hand, and sipped innocently, watching both John and Hamish between seconds. The boy had fixed a steely gaze at the ground, jaw forward and stiff. _Waiting to be sent out, _Sherlock thought, feeling a twinge of empathy. _Back into the cold. _As oblivious as John might make him out to be, Sherlock was quite aware how bitter the winter was, how near to Christmas, and how harsh London law was on the homeless juvenile.

"I don't know what you were thinking John," Sherlock drawled, downing the last of the tea and picking up the discarded case files. He waved them in his flat-mate's direction. "I never eat on a case! Good luck devouring that entire beast you stuck in our oven, because _I _won't be helping."

With that he swept across the flat to do some research on the night Mosely Truant supposedly committed suicide inside his home, with the help of a discarded, loaded gun and a bottle of bleach.

There was some slight murmuring from the other room, but Sherlock was lost in the case, and for the next few hours was blind to it all.

At ten o'clock that night, he did some back-tracking, shuffled through the Yard's files on wanted criminals, and came up with the murderer. He texted Lestrade, emailed him the evidence, and sat back to take a well-deserved break. Solving cold cases left him feeling the warm and fuzzy let-down from the usual adrenaline high he finished active cases with, making for what John referred to as, "Sherlock silence," in other words, hours of peace from the Detective.

He stretched in the hard chair, cracking his back and feeling his suit pull against his shoulders uncomfortably. Rolling an arm back, he stood and surveyed the living room. John was reading in the arm-chair, lamplight all that was left to illuminate the flat. Hamish was sitting upright on the couch, trying very hard not to fall asleep.

He was dressed in some of John's old pajamas, his hair damp and skin clean, so at some point in his comatose state the boy had made it into their joint shower. Sherlock shook his head slightly, heading to his bedroom to change. He wasn't even close to tired yet, and his hands itched to play the violin, but sadly the instrument was down at a shop, getting a peg replaced because it kept slipping. He snatched a book instead, decided to mimic John, and headed out in his robe to sprawl until sleep claimed him.

He took the opposite end of the couch, ignoring Hamish's sidelong glance. A part of Sherlock dearly wanted to ask John the ins and outs of why this homeless teen was gracing their living room with his unremarkable display of stubbornness, but he thought maybe it would be impolite to disturb the peace with that kind of questioning. No doubt John wouldn't even deem him with a reply unless Hamish was in another room.

Sherlock opened the novel and started reading, losing himself in fantasy. He was usually a pretty picky reader, no mystery novels graced his bookshelves, or many classics. He's bitten his way through the masters like all of the other school boys, but that didn't mean he had to like it. That said, he usually spent hours in bookshops, hunting for just the right novel to bring home.

This was a good pick, suggested to him by a girl he had interviewed for a case awhile back, who had said he reminded her of one of its characters. He was about a quarter of the way in when a small snore attracted his attention.

John's book was placed to the side immediately. They both watched Hamish's chest rise and fall, his head tipped at a severely awkward angle. He had fallen asleep sitting up. Sherlock took the chance to observe him as he would a dead body. He scooted a bit closer and carefully began to analyze the boy's face as he slept, deducing more of his past.

_Facial structure symmetrical and cohesive—indicating attractive parents, probably middle class. Earlobe is pierced, but the ring was ripped out in a fight a year and a half ago, just on the streets then. Nose has been broken once, when he was young, eight or nine. Facial scarring suggests cuts from a ring, the same one, large, a man's class ring. American father, probably. The ring must be too big and gaudy to possibly be English._

"He's been at the corner by the surgery for a long time," John whispered. Sherlock nodded to show he was listening and moved the collar of the shirt to take a look at the kid's bone structure. _Broken twice, _he cataloged.

"He never asked for much, mostly because I just gave him whatever change I had, sometimes if I saw him, I'd get him lunch as well. I always wondered why someone hadn't come along to take him away."

"He's good at hiding," Sherlock answered.

"How do you know that?"

"Obvious."

John sighed, rubbing a hand over his face even as he smiled fondly, "I bound up his hand a while back. Said he got in a fist-fight. It looked like more than that, but I didn't say anything, and since then he's been friendlier with me. Well. As friendly as he can manage to be."

"Why did you bring him home, John?" Sherlock sat back, finished with his deduction. He draped one arm over the back of the sofa and propped his feet up on the table. John crossed his arms, face softening to his typical _John's feeling sentimental _look.

"He was alone on the corner this morning."

The Doctor paused, long enough to attract the full-extent of Sherlock's dark stare. "Is that unusual?"

"He'd been gone for about a week," John shrugged, "just disappeared. I thought he went home, or got taken in. But then this afternoon, I got off work, and he was there, out in the sleet, in nothing but what you saw him in before. I thought he was going to freeze to death, and apparently he did too, because he came to me asking to use the sink inside to warm his fingers up. He thought he was getting frostbite."

"So you took him home."

"Yes," John got defensive. "What else should I have done, Sherlock?"

The detective sighed and leaned his head back. "Where is he from?"

"I didn't ask." John rested his chin on his hand. "He told me he was orphaned though. He volunteered quite a bit of information. Apparently he used to go to a boarding school, but when his parents...left him, he's been stranded in London, trying to find work."

"Difficult for an uneducated homeless boy," Sherlock mused.

"Yes, well, he's actually pretty smart. Hasn't been on his own for longer than a year or two, I think."

The flat fell silent, disturbed only by Hamish's quiet snores. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, thinking about what it was like for a young teen on the streets of London. What would he have to do when he didn't have a job? Most of the homeless network Sherlock knew were clustered in protective groups, but it didn't sound like Hamish was with one of those.

The facts were obvious. Prostitution, drug trafficking, gang affiliation were about the only three things to keep a teen alive in London. Of the three, Sherlock found the first to be the most likely, given his facial features and demeanor, but Sherlock found he didn't want to believe the facts, for once. Not this quiet, solemn teen in his flat. Not a boy named Hamish.

The teen mumbled in his sleep, rolling his shoulders and losing all traction he had on the couch, sliding down directly onto Sherlock's arm. Sherlock's eyes snapped wide, staring at the dark-haired teen leaning against his shoulder. Hamish's skin felt hot, his breath sounded wet and labored coming out from his mouth. _Chest cold, _Sherlock thought absently.

John was up and in front of them momentarily. Sherlock turned his wide gaze upon the Doctor, silently thanking that he had come to rescue Sherlock from this indignity.

"Well don't just leave him like that Sherlock," John hissed, placing a pillow on Sherlock's lap and swiftly moving Hamish's head to it.

"What—John!" Sherlock whispered fervently, watching with horror as John draped a blanket over their sleeping guest. "John, what are you doing!"

"I'm helping him sleep," John hissed back, turning his blue eyes on Sherlock in a way that said the detective had no choice in the matter. "You'll be up late, yeah? Just...don't wake him when you go to bed."

"What—but, John! John, _I _sleep on the couch."

John stood, lips twitching in amusement, "Then you better move him to your bed. Just. Don't. _Wake. _Him."

John and Sherlock glared at each other for a moment, before the detective sighed in defeat. He picked his book back up, "Turn the light on, would you?"

The Doctor flicked the lamp beside the couch and then went to turn his off. "Well, I'm turning in. Behave, Sherlock."

The detective waved a hand, "It's as if you believe me to be a savage. I'll let him alone."

John hummed, not convinced, and went upstairs. Sherlock sighed heavily in the incurring silence, wondering how he had gotten to this stage of what he was sure Mycroft would call "whipped" in just three years of living with John Watson, that he was letting a little homeless boy with John's middle name sleep in his lap.

_No wonder they think we're a couple, _Sherlock thought as he vainly tried to refocus on the book. _We're practically adopting. _

Late in the night, when the book was picking up and Hamish stirred in his sleep, fighting off bad memories, Sherlock laid long fingers in his hair and gently soothed the monsters away. Hamish wouldn't know, and Sherlock would never admit it, but he kept his hand there for some time through the night. It was perhaps the first moment that solidified Hamish as a fixture in 221B's life. It was not the last time they would end up like that.

**A.N- So I've been feeling parentlock-y recently, so I finally wrote something. It was intended to be a Christmas-y one-shot, but now it looks like it will be a multi-chapter fic. I don't know when I'll next update. If you like it, you should tune in and tell me, it incites me to write for you. **

**Sherlock belongs to BBC, not me.**


	2. Chapter 2

**[Warning, unbeta-ed, and I'm tired, so the last half page might have some glaring mistakes. Don't hate. I'll fix it tomorrow]**

Hamish was puttering around the living room, touching things. Sherlock watched from his spot at the desk, pretending to be updating his blog and checking emails when really he was just wondering how long this teenager was going to be in their flat. It'd been four days already. Hamish had managed to stick on about three pounds, but he was still skinny, and it was still cold out. That meant John was having a hard time convincing himself to let go, and Hamish (short of an interrogation) would be less quick to leave.

Sherlock sighed at the tell-tale _ding_ of another instant message, possibly the worst application he had allowed John to download to his computer. He pulled up the screen and read the third consecutive message from Lestrade.

_Sherlock, if you don't get yourself down here I won't allow you on a single case for a month._

"Melodramatic," Sherlock muttered, pushing the laptop shut. "Come on, John," he called out, sweeping to the door for his coat. "The Inspector needs us."

"Both of us?" John appeared from the bathroom, toothbrush still in his hand and foam at the corner of his mouth.

The Detective rolled his eyes, tying a scarf about his throat. "We should hurry up, text him and tell him we're coming before he does something rash."

John went back to the bathroom to finish up, muttering quietly to himself. Sherlock picked at a bullet hole in the wall, wondering why he'd never seen it before. He couldn't remember shooting towards the door. John appeared momentarily, busily texting and putting his shoes on at the same time. Sherlock ignored Hamish's curious and uncertain gaze from the far side of the room, waiting for John to take care of that.

The Doctor did indeed catch Hamish's gaze when he looked up from finishing his text. John glanced at Sherlock, who was studiously pretended not to catch the question there, instead letting John make this choice.

"Hamish?" John shoved his arms into his coat. "Want to come down to Scotland Yard with us?"

Sherlock sighed loudly, knowing that the kid would probably make a flash-fire assumption that they were turning him in. Hamish moved from side to side, "The Yard? Why?"

John started pulling on some gloves, "You know, so you don't get bored. We might be there for awhile." He hesitated, "And…you may see Sherlock harass the officers. That's always fun." Sherlock turned on a dime, arching an eyebrow. _Does he?_ John sent him a look that said _no I am not encouraging you. _

Hamish stepped closer to them, "I guess…"

"They will ask questions," Sherlock announced to no one in particular. He worried his lip, imagining what Lestrade would say about a teen tagging along with them. _At least he doesn't look diseased anymore. _"We'll just say he's with me," he answered for himself. "Potential genius or something."

"Think that will work?" John asked quizzically.

"Worked for you," Sherlock shrugged. "Anyway, we're just going to interrogate. He can watch behind the glass."

With that he was off down the stairs, heading out to grab a cabbie off the street. John and Hamish followed after a minute, the teen wrapped in one of John's older winter coats and a blue knit hat snug on his head. The three squeezed into the cab, Sherlock sitting as close to the foggy window as physics would allow. John still ended up pressed against him, not uncomfortably.

The twenty minute ride to Scotland Yard's headquarters was over in a flash, and soon the three of them were bursting into the building at high speed. Well, Sherlock was, because he was feeling dramatic today, and the other two were jogging to keep up. They took the elevator to Lestrade's office, which would've been very quiet had it not been for a sudden questionnaire from the teen.

"There's a gun range here?" he pointed at the labels beside the buttons. John looked at the teen, his usual sentimental half-smile curling his lips.

"They do need a place to practice." Hamish pursed his lips, eyes glinting a bit.

"I've never even seen a Yarder fire a weapon," he snorted a bit. "They like their clubs all too much."

Sherlock sent an sideways glance across the elevator, but Hamish was glaring at his reflection. The picture of Donovan or Lestrade beating some homeless kid into the ground, while ridiculous to his mind, was not at all foreign to the stories he'd heard from survivors.

John's shoulder's stiffened momentarily, but they were approaching the seventh floor, and he had little time to say anything. The door's began to slide open, and Sherlock moved quickly onto Lestrade's floor. John hung back with Hamish, meeting his eyes and grinning. "How'd you like a go down at the range when we're done here?"

Hamish's eyes brightened immediately. "Can we do that?" he said, sending his voice low and looking conspiratorially around them.

John shrugged, "They'll be glad we're not shooting the walls."

Hamish smiled, a hither-to foreign look on him to John. It made him look oddly like Sherlock. John smiled to himself, happy he could turn the kid's mood around, and picked up the pace. Sherlock was already seated in front of Lestrade, his coat bunched around his waist. He looked impatient.

"John, tell Lestrade to stop being so difficult."

"Detective Inspector," John sighed in greeting, holding the office door open for Hamish. Lestrade's eyes followed the boy in. He looked like he didn't know whether to be polite or suspicious.

"Morning," he chirped instead, staring at the teen. Hamish thinned his lips and nodded in greeting, turning awkwardly to stare out the glass wall. All three adult eyes trained on him for a moment, and then Sherlock was turning to the Inspector.

"He's with me."

"Ah," Lestrade blanched a bit around his coffee mug. "Alright…then. Well, the perp's down the hall. We're keeping him in a safe room, makes them feel more comfortable up here rather than down in the cells." He dripped the remains of his drink into his mouth. "There's not a lot we can do to him that's legal to get a confession."

"So you thought you'd being me in," Sherlock nodded sagely.

"Well, there's no one like you who has the capacity to offend someone to point where they confess out of spite." Lestrade grinned cheekily. Sherlock stood up as Lestrade spoke, taking off his coat and rolling up the sleeves of his button-up. Lestrade saluted him on his way out the door. "John," the Inspector muttered half a second later. "Would you go make sure this doesn't go to shit?"

"Yeah," the Doctor sighed, but stopped before he left, looking questioningly at Hamish.

"Hey kid," Lestrade stood up and stretched. "You like coffee?" Hamish nodded by way of answer. "Well, you can go with Donovan—hang on, _Donovan!—_yeah, go with her and get some."

"Can I watch the interrogation?" Hamish asked, curiously.

Lestrade's mouth opened, immediately forming a _no, _but then he paused, and gave Hamish a once-over. Then he looked at John, who was still lingering. "Is he…like him?" Nobody had to ask who _he _was.

John smiled a bit and shook his head. Lestrade clucked his tongue, "Alright, fine," he stared distantly at his coffee cup. "So long as I'm not cultivating another one."

Hamish grinned, and John walked away feeling reasonably sure the teen could take care of himself. Half a minute later, Sergeant Donovan leaned on the door frame. Lestrade pointed at the teen in answer to her question. She looked him over, nodded, and gestured for him to follow.

"Saw you come in with them," she said out in the hallway, stepping back so they could walk side by side. Hamish bit the inside of his cheek and stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, wagering it was safer not to answer. "Thought you might be the Doctor's nephew or something, but you look too much like the Freak for that."

Hamish raised his eyebrows even as she motioned for the coffee bar she'd lead him too. He took down a Styrofoam cup and started making a cup, "No, not related in any way."

Donovan leaned against the counter. Hamish glanced at her reflection in the coffee pot. She was staring blatantly, eyes narrow, a cop's attitude trying to figure out everything about him. He added lots of sugar and stirred. "Well, you remind me of him."

Hamish sipped the cup, looking innocently at the officer. "You think I'm a 'Freak' too?" She opened her mouth to backtrack, her skin flushing under his steady gaze. "No, don't worry, I am. A freak, that is." His eyes unfocused a bit, thinking about the last four days. Sherlock Holmes had been a lot less strange and a lot more manic than the newspapers made him out to be. Everything he did made sense, he just did it in such a way that he came off as either an impossible genius or a toddler. Like yesterday, he had thrown a temper-tantrum for John's slight rearrangement of the books on the shelf. The two bickered like an old married couple. Hamish had almost been hysterical during that fight, secluded as he was in the other room.

But Sherlock Holmes also had dark moments. He'd come back from chasing down a criminal two days ago, eyes black against his face, knuckles and lip bleeding. The look of murderous success had reminded Hamish that this was the man who was called when the criminals couldn't be caught. He went after the worst of the worst.

Hamish admired him. He'd always thought Sherlock Holmes to be a little less impressive, considering he lived with a man like John Watson, the kind doctor of the little surgery Hamish prowled for easy charity. The Doctor was a person Hamish thought his older brother might've turned out to be, had he not become the burnout he was. He was unshakable and calm, but had a certain bearing about him that made Hamish sure the man would not hesitate to hurt what harmed his own.

The Doctor treated him like an adult when he patched his hand, or handed him a wrapped sandwich from the nearby deli. He must've known Hamish was underage, he could've called CPS at any point, yet he didn't. He let Hamish go his way. And then, when Hamish went to him directly with a broken nose or a stomach empty for three days, he was kind and accepting. He never asked any questions.

It felt like John Watson trusted Hamish. It made him feel indebted, and also strangely humbled.

He refocused on Donovan, "I like him. I think he's a great man." He shrugged apologetically, leaving the Sergeant and her piercing gaze behind. He ambled back towards the room Doctor and Detective were, ignoring the curious gazes of officers at his back. He found the side room, marked "Viewing" and walked in.

Just beyond the thick plate of glass were the flat mates and a sweating man in red flannel with his lips pursed stubbornly. To the right was a speaker, with an unlit red button beneath it. He pushed it just to see what would happen. The speaker crackled, and then voices came through the wall.

"-you've got three illegitimate kids, the way your bank account is going. If we let you out of here with nothing but a misdemeanor, you'll be worse off than you would be locked up." Sherlock stopped to take a breath. "There is also the case of you, winding up another grisly vengeful attack the Yard's emergency crew has to clean up after a long day of working traffic accidents. Scraping you from the concrete, it won't matter how much money you do or don't have, you'll just end up nameless, a splat of bone marrow with no rhyme or reason, and unmarked _tomb—_"

Hamish laughed. "Oh _shit, _you better confess," he said to himself, watching avidel. John and Sherlock both started where they were, looking around in confusion. Hamish clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes popping open in surprise. Fingers shaking at the effort to keep his hysterics in, he reached a hand out to turn off the speaker. He leaned against the window, gasping.

"Oh my god," he wheezed. Then, when he finally caught his breath enough where he thought he probably wouldn't ruin the rest of the interrogation, he pressed the speaker button again.

The man's slurred confession came on the line. Hamish was shaking from the effort of holding himself up, his ribs still ached. Sherlock Holmes was leaning where John was a moment ago. Hamish scraped the room with his eyes, but it was small, and explicably obvious the man wasn't in the room.

The confession abruptly cut off. "Having fun?"

Hamish flinched in surprise. John was smiling pleasantly at him, hands in his pockets. He must've come in sometime during the hysterical fit. Hamish felt a blush start around his neck and looked away.

"Uh, yeah…sorry about that, I—"

"No, no, don't worry about it. He likes it when people compliment his way of doing things. I think you inflamed his ego enough to really go in for the kill." John winked, "Saved us a load of melodrama."

Hamish smirked. "Donovan calls him 'freak,'" he muttered, sending a headlong glance at John. The Doctor averted his eyes, looking through the mirror at Sherlock. "That doesn't bother you?"

Hamish thought that if someone called his boyfriend "freak" he'd probably knock out a tooth, especially if it was some high-and-mighty bitch like the Seargant.

"He'd just ridicule me if I defended him, and he likes to handle her on his own," John explained.

Hamish snorted lightly, "Still. It's not like there's anyone else who's about to defend him."

John looked at him, surprised. "You know that man, you've been in our flat." He laughed self-deprecatingly, "You think he wants me to defend him for such 'dull' things?"

Hamish watched the curly haired Detective steeple his fingers and stare upwards, listening patiently to the man's taped confession. He thought about his temper tantrum and the blackness of his eyes. He thought about the way Sherlock spoke to John. He thought about the stories John had told him about Sherlock, before they had met. He thought about the way Sherlock would lose track of the present and completely disappear in his mind for hours.

"Yes," Hamish's voice came out fervent. He looked seriously at John, "Maybe just once."

The room grew very quiet and solemn. Hamish leaned back, Sherlock looked about done. For the first time in four days, Hamish was hit with the thought that he was an impermanent fixture in their lives, he was merely playing companion for the day. He sighed, feeling exhausted and energized all at once.

He felt like, maybe, it was getting time to leave.

He fiddled with the coat, which was warm and hearty. He was wearing a pair of jeans John had fetched for him, after guessing his size, and a new pair of trainers, good for the road. He thought about John's wallet, sitting in the loose back pocket of his jeans. He could probably get it now, before Sherlock's sharp eyes caught the act, and then disappear just outside of Scotland Yard.

A pang of guilt swept him. No, he couldn't take John's wallet. He would already be stealing the jacket.

He looked shiftily towards the Doctor, as if he could read his thoughts, but John was lost in his own thoughts. Hamish let out a slow breath, tapped his fingers on the glass. An hour ago he had been living in peace, not thinking about the future, what John Watson thought he was doing with a teenager in his flat. Now he was seized with an ineffable desire to have something certain, something sealed.

It was probably only a matter of time before one of them called CPS.

_Tonight, _Hamish decided. _When we get back, I'll take off. Break anything before they become too idealistic. _

Promise at hand, Fate set by himself, Hamish wondered why he was felt so heavy.

**A.N- Hey guys! Sorry about the wait. I almost lost the threat of what I wanted in this chapter, but it hit strong in the end. Double sorry for not including a shooting range thing! I'll let you imagine John's point of view, watching Hamish laugh uncontrollably on your own (you're welcome). Some of you seem to like this, so I'll pack on a healthy dose of whump for the next chapter (not a lot though, just enough to be real). **

**Thanks for reviewing, peeps!**


	3. Chapter 3

Hamish giggled uncontrollably, stumbling into the flat. John, gasping for breath, followed him shortly after. Sherlock closed the door, lips tightly set together to stop from laughing, but an unmistakable smile curving his lips.

"I can't believe you said that," Hamish clapped his hands, leaning on the couch. "To _his brother!"_ He pointed wildly at Sherlock, who was now showing teeth, a deep, rumbling laugh echoing out of his chest.

"To be fair," John held up a finger, "I didn't know his favorite color really was pink, okay, _I didn't._" Sherlock started laughing loudly. Hamish curled in, holding his stomach as it ached.

"Oh, oh god, I'm dying," he stared up at the ceiling, trying to get a reign on his emotions. John collapsed on the armchair, holding his head in his hands. Sherlock pegged his coat on the hanger and disappeared into the kitchen.

"John," he called out, following the sound of the fridge opening.

"Oh no," the Doctor sighed, wiping at his eyes. "No milk?"

The sound of the fridge slamming was all they needed to hear. "No food either," Sherlock announced, reappearing at the doorframe. "Leftovers are out, in fact, the amount of mold growing on the Chinese could serve me well to make some penicillin."

John groaned, eyes flicking to the window. It had started to snow on their way back to the flat, and snow in London more often became sleet.

"Well, if you want food, we'll have to go to Tesco's," John patted the sides of the armchair.

"Tesco's is five blocks off, why don't we just order out?" Sherlock's phone flipped between his hands, but John was twisting in his seat to glare at Sherlock.

"If I put another piece of barely-edible chicken into my mouth, so help me Sherlock, I will retire your chemistry set."

Hamish coughed to mask a snort, mostly because; he'd had a chemistry set once. He'd be seven. Sherlock's lips thinned, probably because he was not enjoying the thought of walking all the way to Tesco's and carrying groceries back.

"All we need is some pasta," John said, leaning back in chair. "Cheese. Maybe something with vitamins in it, but quite honestly I'm perfectly alright with just mac and cheese." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Well, can we call someone to go get it for us? We should've gone to pick it up on the way back," he muttered the last bit self-deprecatingly to himself.

"I'll go," Hamish volunteered. Both men swiveled to look at him. The teen cooled under their joint gazes. He shrugged, broke eye contact briefly, and shyly nudged the floor. "I'm still wearing my shoes, and it's only a few blocks away. I can be back real fast."

"No, that's not a problem, Hamish, but it's cold out." John sighed, "I don't want you to feel like you have to do things for us. We'll get up and go, it's not—"

"No, John," Sherlock interrupted. John paused, tipping his head up to look at the Detective. Hamish swallowed, met Sherlock's eyes. The dark-haired man crossed the room in two strides, whipping out his wallet. "Here," he waved a card in Hamish's face, "remember this, eight-four-six-one, it's debit. Use the computer, and hope to God you can use one better than John."

John muttered something evil under his breath, but Hamish didn't break the gaze he had on Sherlock's card, in his hand. He had a number. He could access the bank account of the world's only consulting detective in seconds, that had to pay well right?

"Take these," John supplied, getting up and handing Hamish his woolen gloves. "Try to be fast, it'll be getting worse soon."

Hamish nodded, shoved the card into his jean pocket. Still in a haze, he started preparing to enter the snow, zipping his jacket and pulling on the gloves. John wandered off to the kitchen to make a list. The sound of close breathing made Hamish look up.

Sherlock was still standing very close, about a foot away. He was examining Hamish's movements with a critical eye, and the teen realized with a start that the Detective was deducing him. His fingers fought to clench under the gloves, but he resisted. This man would know—know he was plotting half-heartedly to run away with all this money, take their kindness and throw it away.

_He can't know, _a tiny voice hissed in his head. _He just gave you his card, he can't know!_

It took him a moment to realize Sherlock had long since stopped looking, and now was staring into Hamish's eyes. Only John walking into the room made Hamish break gaze, and when he did he felt like he was spinning—losing control. John was saying something like "be careful" and shoving a list into his hand. Hamish nodded vaguely, taking it, and turning to leave.

Being out of that flat and back onto the cool London streets bit him hard, and it made him wake up.

His hand went to his leg, where the debit card was. He started walking the road to Tesco's. Two blocks this way was a street ATM, which Hamish could use to extract as much money as he'd think he'd need to live for a few years, not comfortably, but alive, until he turned of age.

He walked faster, ignoring the sharp, stinging pain of the ever-increasing wind, sending snow flurries directly into his face. He gritted his teeth. And why shouldn't he? Maybe he wouldn't even take that much, maybe he'd just take enough to get by on for a little while, through the winter months. Enough to buy a warm place to stay, that was really all he needed.

And if he didn't?

His pace slowed. He was approaching the ATM. If he didn't take the money…if he went to Tesco's, bought what John wanted him to buy, and took it back, then what? How long could they go on pretending it was legal for him to be with them, for him to be out of parent care at all?

What if he…told them?

Hamish closed his eyes and marched on by the ATM angrily. He owed them dinner, at least. He might as well buy that.

_Tell them, _ he thought. _Tell them and what? His brother's the British government, could he do something? Pull some…strings?_

His pace picked up again until he was almost running into Tesco's. He took out the list and hurriedly did the shopping. Ten minutes later, he was standing in the queue and his thoughts wandered again. This time, his resolve was sharper, focused.

_I won't tell them, _he thought, viciously. _Nothing. I won't ask for anything. They've already given me food, and clothes, and a place to sleep. They don't owe me anything else. _He sighed, stepping forward in line. _I owe them…_he thought, morosely. _I owe them my life, I might've lost fingers without John Watson picking me up that morning. _

He went through the computer without a problem, ended up carrying three bags out of Tesco's. He walked slowly to Baker street, stopping for a considerable amount of time in front of the ATM, staring at it.

By the time he was back at the door, he was almost completely soaked through, and shivering. He stared at the door, with the big, brass lettering, and found there was lump somewhere in his chest tethering him to the sidewalk.

The truth of it was, Hamish wanted to go back inside. He wanted to keep sleeping on the couch, he wanted John to tell him more stories about Mycroft, he wanted to hear Sherlock go on a deduction spree first-hand. He wanted to live it. He wanted to be there with them.

He couldn't. It was impossible. And it was the impossibility of that thought that was keeping him here, outside, in the sleet, with three shopping bags and a heavy debit card and empty pockets. Hamish was good at finding ways out of things, so good at it, in fact, that he was absolute shit at getting _into _anything.

It didn't matter how much he wanted it. It didn't matter how much he liked it there. There was reality, and there were his dreams, and neither of them was ever connected to the other, in any way. That was the truth of it.

Hamish set the bags down on the step, leaning against the wall. He fumbled around one of the bags for the pen and notepad he'd grabbed at the register, bit off the right glove to free his fingers, popped open the packets, and began to write.

The bell rang, up at flat 221B. John and Sherlock both flinched. The bell was long, uninterrupted for about three seconds. They glanced at each other, confused.

"Not a case…" John mused, standing up.

"No," Sherlock agreed, eyes far away as he ran through several ideas of who was at the door. He stroke out of the flat and down the stairs quickly, John nipping his heels. They jogged down the flights of stairs, Sherlock being the one to throw the door open.

At the step was a collection of Tesco bags. John leaned heavily on the door frame. "Oh, no," he breathed, leaning down and plucking a folded leaf of paper from one of the bags. Sherlock, eyes sharp and unsurprised, stepped over the bags and down to the sidewalk, oblivious to the cold. The streets were dark, hardly anyone walking around. Cars breezed by, offering some cutting lights in the snow. Sherlock didn't even attempt to search for footprints in the sleet. Everything was being washed away in seconds.

"Sherlock," John called. The Detective turned back into the doorway, where John was pursing his lips, the debit card hanging from his hands. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, he hadn't expected that.

Gathering the bags and shutting the door to close off the cold, John and Sherlock huddled around the hand-written note. On the front it said, _For John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, _in tight, slightly wavering print.

_Thank you very much for taking care of me for the last few days, _it began. _I am indebted to you for offering me your clothes, food, and home for four nights. I'm sorry to take off this way. I must seem really ungrateful—but I'm not. I just can't stay. You know that. You two are great, great for each other, but I can't stay forever. I'm not your family, you owe me nothing but a call to the CPS, and you mercifully haven't done that yet. It was time for me to go, before any of this got us in too deep. Thank you for your kindness. I'm taking the clothes but I left all the money on that card alone. Sorry. _

It was signed with a loopy, unpracticed "Hamish."

John leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Sherlock looked at him, face unreadable.

"You know," the baritone was low and soothing. "I could ask my brother for a little favor…"

"No," John shook his head. "No, it's okay Sherlock, he can make his own decisions. And he trusts us, a little. He might, I don't know, come back. If things get too hard. He might."

Sherlock thought that was highly unlikely after this display but didn't say so. He secretly thought maybe he'd do some tracking of his own. Taking the bags off the ground and pushing John gently with his shoulder, the two walked slowly, soberly, back up the stairs.

Hamish walked around the familiar streets of London. Probably the greatest and the worst thing about this city was, it was so huge that even though he had grown up here, all he had to do was transfer to the opposite side of where he came from to escape everything familiar. The part of London, Baker Street to St. Bart's was all familiar to him from his year and summer living homeless. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't impossible. There was enough charity projects running around, and before he'd had to cut his hair, enough unquestioning employers in need of cheap labor, to allow him survival. This winter had started out hard, and just gotten worse, hence the descent that landed him in 221B.

Hamish had his hood up and over his ears, but his teeth were still chattering. His hands were cemented into fists, trying to keep the fingertips warm. He wagered it to be about eight o'clock by now. It'd been around four when he'd left 221B. They'd spent the better part of the day going around London "collecting evidence" which included two break-ins while Hamish kept watch. At the moment, crouched just inside a small alley between town-houses, London was shrouded in blackness.

He was cold, and somewhat afraid of what might be in the dark with him, and he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else, than in London right now. He closed his eyes, blind for a moment.

_I wish I'd never been born, sometimes. _

He stood, suddenly, decided to just risk the walk through snow to get to the lost places where the homeless gathered for shelter from the elements. It was almost two hours from this place, but at least that was better than crouching in this dark for the rest of the night. He stepped out from the dark, took two steps, and crashed directly into a police officer.

_Oh screw my luck, _he thought, stepping back instantly. A firm hand grasped his shoulder, holding Hamish hard in place. The boy looked upwards, cringing at his bad luck. Not an ID on him, no home to go back to. This was turning into a night to remember.

He got a good look at the officer's face and felt his stomach drop out. He suddenly wished he'd stayed with John and Sherlock for just one more night.

"Hamish," the officer's face twisted into an ugly smile. The other, leather-gloved hand moved up to touch his face. "Well, well, this is where you've been hiding. Right…under…my nose."

Hamish flinched back, trying to step away. The grip grew more ferocious, digging into the bones of his shoulder. He hissed a quiet, "_ouch."_

"Oh, this is nothing, _son,_" the officer leaned down to whisper in his ear. "You will be getting so much worse when we get back. Your mother….well, she'll bleed you more than I will."

"I somehow seriously doubt that," Hamish muttered through gritted teeth. His hands clenched into fists, mind working a mile a second, trying to figure out simultaneously how to get out of this and whether or not God just hated him this much, to send his fucking _father _walking down the street this night.

"Oh?" The man's crooning in his ear made a lifetime worth of hatred feed into Hamish's veins. "Why's that?"

"I don't think you'll manage to bring me home, _dad._"

Hamish head-butted him before he could respond. He'd seen it in movies before, and the sensation of snapping someone's nose with your forehead was strangely reminiscent of cracking an egg under your palm. His father reeled back, shouting in agony. One beefy arm lashed out and caught Hamish firmly in the throat. He gasped and choked, but scrambled away from the flailing officer, ignoring how little air he was now taking in.

He'd gone ten steps before his father was upon him again, smashing the club into his shoulder. Hamish cried out hoarsely, but refused to go down in the snow. The club came up again, swinging wildly, this time for his head. He ducked, scrambling to outpace his father, but the man was keeping up. Hamish rounded the corner of a building just in time to collide with a left-out magazine rack. He tumbled end over end, pile driving his already bruised shoulder into the concrete and scraping his cheek. His father yelped. There was the sound of broken glass, than an alarm going off. Hamish struggled to his feet, disoriented, trying to untangle from the metal display rack and run away at the same time. His whole left face felt bruised, he thought he might've seriously broken his collar bone with that last fall.

His father had smashed through the shop window.

Hamish didn't stick around to see what had made him trip, (probably ice) and limped away as fast as he could. The further his feet took him, the more panicky he got until his head was dizzy and he could no longer breathe. He was sure he was having some sort of fit, but he couldn't stop. Never stop, that was death. What if his dad was in the cruiser, driving around, searching him out? He had to get off the streets.

He paused just long enough to read the signs at the next crossroads, and re-orient. His face felt like it was bleeding freely now. His shoulder had deadened to a dull throb, and his throat, though now accepting air for the taking, ached with every breath.

_Baker Street, _he thought, _is about ten blocks straight that way. _

Hamish thought about turning away, going to find a dark, quiet place, and caring for his bruises on his own. But a flash of blue police light against a window two blocks to his left caught his eyes, and the boy was tearing across the street, headless of any crosswalk, and blind to anything but the goal.

Reach Baker Street.

Run away.

**A.N-Well, here's some decent action for you guys. I hope it didn't seem over-done. For the sake of drama, I had to sprinkle in some Fate, but I hope all will be explained clearly and sufficiently for you in the next chapter. **

**Thanks for reading and alerting this story! I'm happy you seem to be enjoying it.**


	4. Chapter 4

**[Sounds whumpy. Kinda is. It really isn't. Don't judge the first sentence.]**

**[Also, not responsible for my take on British hospital locations to Baker Street. I just sort of made it up.]**

Hamish may have started crying somewhere between the pain of smashing into a magazine rack and careening into a wooden door with brass lettering. The snowstorm pretty much made it impossible to tell whether he was legitimately weeping or just reacting to the cold, and that was probably better for everyone.

He tried the door handle. It was, by some mercy somewhere, not even fully closed. He darted inside as if hell hounds were at his heels.

With the door closed, silence descended. Hamish was alone to wheeze in the hallway.

Soaking wet, he trundled his hurt and pathetic, self-loathing body upstairs. His head was currently divided. One camp wanted him to turn around and leave this place at that moment, before he lost every shred of dignity he had left. The other, the winning side, was whispering _you'll die out there. _

He always knew he was melodramatic, and dying was probably unrealistic, but at the moment he was too fucking scared at the prospect of ever leaving this complex again for the streets of London that he didn't even give a shit how much his eyes were blurred or his hand trembling as he raised it to knock at 221B.

The door cracked open within three seconds. Three long, agonizing seconds out on the steps. Hamish was still reasonably certain he was having a panic attack, or going into shock. He wasn't sure which he'd prefer. He thought maybe one sent you to the hospital, and the other required some hugging in front of a lit fireplace.

John opened the door, mug of tea in hand, which he promptly spilled all over himself when he saw the blooded, soaked teenager he'd thought had left them for good hours ago.

"Hamish!" he gasped, setting the mug on the floor and ushering the teen inside. Hamish bit his cheek to stop from moaning with relief when the Doctor locked the door. His eyes closed. He felt very, very safe behind that door.

John's hands were on his face, checking the scrape on his cheek. Hamish was so cold he didn't feel any of the probing fingers to his cuts, which were coming away red.

"Sherlock, get the kit, and some towels, and blankets, and maybe—"

"Got it, John."

All of this was said distantly and far over Hamish's head. An arm was leading him away from the soft living room and into one of the no-nonsense kitchen chairs. Hamish felt John start unzipping his jacket and shuffled back into half-consciousness.

"Sorry for leaving," Hamish slurred. His eyes closed again, partly out of the pain of John worrying his shoulder, and partly to avoid the look John was giving him. He didn't even want to start processing what other people might be feeling, now that he was on sensory overload.

"It's—fine, Hamish. I'm glad you came back; now tell me, what hurts?"

"Every…" Hamish struggled for a second to gain a breath. His throat was really beginning to bother him. "My shoulder. Right one. Took a fall."

"His throat, John," Sherlock's voice slipped into the make-shift examining room. A pile of towels and blankets tumbled to the floor, the medical kit going to John.

"Right," John stood and tipped up Hamish's chin. "I'll start with that. Sherlock, help him out of his shoes, would you?"

Hamish would've protested, but between the order to 'not move' from John, an incapacitated shoulder, and a bone-deep weariness, he hardly said a word as Sherlock crouched down to undo the wet, knotted laces.

"Swelling a bit, but nothing more than bruising," John muttered, carefully probing Hamish's neck. He put two fingers on his pulse and went silent. Hamish focused on trying to even out his breathing. "You'd do better if you stopped having a panic attack," John announced, cool as a cucumber. Hamish smirked at the thought, and coughed when he forgot to breathe. He took a long, even breath, counted it out to four, and then did it again. John picked up a towel and started to part his face free of water.

"If you feel like you're suffocating, say something." Hamish wanted to send him a questioning look, _was that sarcasm…or? _But a towel was quite in his face.

Hamish twisted uncomfortably, but the sensation was gone momentarily. John reached across for the alcohol swabs, some medical tape, and Neosporin. He crouched down a little to get a better look, setting about cleaning the large scrap across Hamish's face.

Sherlock had stripped him of his shoes and socks and had put a towel under his feet, folding the ends over to cover his toes. There came a long and semi-awkward silence, where Hamish was aware his heartbeat had slowed to almost normal levels, and he could see fairly clearly now, and there was nothing to distract him from being in the flat he had left so urgently earlier that afternoon.

His skin started to burn as John applied the alcohol. It hardly dented the pain everywhere else.

A minute later, tape applied, the Doctor stood back a little to observe his work.

"The shoulder, too, yes?" John asked, rolling the bloodied swabs together and throwing them in the bin. Hamish nodded, trying his hardest to not be present in the building at the moment. "We'll have to take your shirt off, so I can look," the Doctor almost sounded apologetic. Hamish half-shrugged and sat up straighter. The shirt was pretty damp and cold, and honestly he was looking forward to getting it off. John helped him ease it off his bad shoulder. Hamish, now half-naked in the kitchen, shivered violently. Water dripped feely from his hair.

He turned to take a look at his shoulder, see what damage had been done, but a towel was suddenly and surprisingly covering his view. He stiffened as two hands started to rub his hair free of water.

"Careful with the bandages, Sherlock," Hamish heard John say. His heart skipped a little bit. _Is Sherlock Holmes seriously drying off my hair? _He would've spent a little more time thinking about that, but then a bar of iron-hot pain laced through his shoulder and he spat out the worst curse he could think of, squeezing his eyes shut.

A steady hand gripped his other shoulder, and then a gentler touch continued to probe the bad one. This time, slightly more prepared, the pain was less, but it still throbbed like a bitch. Hamish was temporarily in need of the towel to distract him. John dug through the medical kit for a moment, dragging something out of the bottom. Quick as a whip he was fastening a white cotton sling around Hamish's injured shoulder. He winced as John placed his arm in it, but the pain soon relaxed back into a dull throb.

"Right, your collar bone might be fractured," John stood up. The towel was whisked off of Hamish's head. "At worst. I don't think it's broken, but there's little to be said for caution. Is Molly working tonight?" This last was directed over Hamish's head.

"Yes, I believe she is," the sound of a mobile coming to life, "want me to check?"

"Yeah, we'll need an x-ray, but he…"

"Not to worry," Sherlock started tapping swiftly at his phone. "I'll warn her we're coming."

John walked over to the door and unhooked a heavy, fleece jacket. He walked back over to Hamish, "Here, I would give you a jumper or something, but the less we move your arm the better. Just slide this over your shoulders." Hamish nodded mutely, standing and letting John drape the jacket, which Hamish held with his good hand.

Leaving Hamish there, John went over to whisper to Sherlock. Hamish though about the prospect of going back outside and found he really wanted to sit back down. He almost wanted to ask John if he was going to bring a gun with him. He collapsed back in the chair, forcing himself to stay calm.

Fear was the decided factor on whether you lived or died, and Hamish had stayed alive from the age of thirteen on London streets. His fight or flight response was quick to surface, and the answer was almost always _flight._

"How are you going to call a cab in this weather?" Hamish called out into the living room. It was the one restriction he could think of being a legitimate block from keeping them from the hospital. John quietly swore.

"He has a good point, Sherlock." John sent his flat mate a long, hard, _you know what I'm thinking, _look. The Detective, who was reading a reply to his message, caught John's facial expression and stepped back.

"_No,_ John," Sherlock shook his head, once, firmly. "Absolutely not." The two glared at each other, and John backed down first, seemingly not wanting to start a fight.

John took out his own mobile, "Do you happen to know a cab company's number off the top of your head? We'll have to call one in, unless you want to stand out in that for half an hour."

Sherlock opened his mouth to snap out something probably sassy. Most unfortunately, his phone rang at that moment. He stared at the screen through the second ring, looking incredulous. Quickly, before it could go off again, he answered and into the receiver hissed a hostile, _"No."_

"Who is that?" John stepped closer to Sherlock, but the taller man waved him off and walked angrily towards the window. John followed him, "Is that Mycroft? _Hello? _Sherlock, no, tell him we need a car." Sherlock was deathly silent, his lips sealed together, ignoring John completely. The Doctor tried a different tactic, "_Sherlock Holmes, if your brother is offering us a ride that I don't have to pay for and you turn him down, so help me—"_

"John, if you do not stop interfering I will—"

"Sherlock, _we need a car, _stop being such a prat and let your brother lend us one!"

Sherlock glowered at John, his phone half-off his ear. "If ask for anything…" something from the phone distracted him, and he turned away, listening. Hamish watched, disinterested_. _The way his night was going, his father would be knocking on the door with a warrant in about three minutes, just in time to ruin everything.

_Well, of course, you ruined things first by leaving, _an evil voice hummed in his head.

Hamish closed his eyes. _Yeah, sometimes blame just always seems to tag itself to me, _he thought, only a little sarcastically. He was so tired, but leaning his neck too far to any side caused hard, flashing pain to make him sit upright again. What if he did walk outside and his father was there, patrolling the area in his cop car, bleeding but alive? What if he saw his runaway son with two older men, getting into an unmarked car? Would he follow them to the hospital? Pull them over and demand his child back?

Hamish had thought he'd struck a decent deal in the note he'd left behind. Let him leave, don't seek him out, and he wouldn't take his evidence to the police and have them both arrested for child abuse and drug trafficking. The physical evidence had been saved to several websites and a flash-drive he'd buried in a box in a cemetery, but that was all useless to him if he got caught by his father and locked in his house until he died. It was all useless, really, because all he wanted was freedom from them. The threat was merely damage he would exact if they put an alert on him.

They never did.

He licked his lips, heart thrilling in his chest. _Maybe I should tell them, _he thought, _just in case. Just in case we do get pulled over, so they won't be taken by surprise._

Sherlock was muttering tight-lipped into the phone, John staring at him with arms crossed but looking triumphant. Hamish tried to calm his breathing, which was currently inflaming his throat. He started to feel a little light-headed. _Calm the fuck down, _he commanded himself, closing his eyes. _Just tell them the barest facts. _

"There, it's done," Sherlock threw his phone at the couch. Hamish couldn't see their expressions but he thought, maybe, John was smiling.

"Thank you, Sherlock," he murmured patiently.

"They'll be here in fifteen minutes."

Panic socked him in the gut. Hamish stood immediately and was hit with a wave of exhaustion. His collar really did hurt. Going to the hospital and getting laden with drugs was starting to look like a good idea. He stumbled to stand against the dividing wall, ignoring John's admonition for him to sit down before he passed out.

"Listen," Hamish swallowed and fixed his eyes firmly on Sherlock's left leg, something that wasn't spinning. His knees were tired and weak. He really needed a rest. "Listen, there's something you need to know before we go out there." He trailed his eyes up, forcing himself to look both of the flat mates, turn-by-turn, in the eye.

John, surprisingly, jumped the gun. "Is the person who did this to you out there? Did they follow you?"

Hamish was taken aback, "Wha—well, yeah…maybe, I know they didn't see me come in." He swallowed and fixed his eyes on the floor, remembering the feeling of his father's crushing grip, the promise of a threat that was neither overdramatic nor empty. "Maybe…they might…be out there. When we leave." He shook his head.

The line crossing into truth was one he hadn't walked in a long, long time. It was terrifying, the thought of telling the truth. No one had ever believed him before, no one wanted to. It was so much easier to manipulate people by saying what they wanted to hear. _Yes I'm eighteen. I'm on the way home, I just can't afford any cabs._ He bared his teeth against the suffering of truth told before. "It's a police officer."

There. The truth.

He bent his head and stared down intently at the cracks in his floor. The sound of footsteps rapidly approaching him made him cock his head to the side and prepare for the catfight. _Too much to hope for, _he thought dully. No one ever believed. Not when he was living at home, not when he was homeless, had nothing to lose. Police officers were beyond reproach, after all.

John was holding on to him, at the elbow, the bad arm. Hamish prepared for a violent rattle, as was always accompanied this type of thing. He turned grim, black eyes on John, his mouth twisted into a gritty smirk. _Of course, you too, _it said. Hamish's eyes clouded. He thought about how peaceful it'd been before he'd seen the inside of this flat.

"Hamish, I will sooner shoot somebody than let the person who did this to you walk within thirty feet of us, officer or no." John held the boys gaze, stony and sharp with a soldier's intensity. A promise.

Hamish felt some of his resolve crumble. It was his dream, living. John was offering to protect him from this mysterious police officer. He _believed _him, unconditionally. Hamish, the street rat. Hamish, the juvenile criminal. Hamish, the liar.

"He's my father," Hamish breathed, to see what he would do, say; searching for a change in John's expression, a look of horror, disbelief, the fatal words _no, that's impossible, he wouldn't do something like…_

John's mouth thinned, a look very much like fury passed his eyes, but the grip and resolution remained the same. Hamish relaxed. He flicked his gaze over to Sherlock, but the long legged detective was facing away from them, throwing his phone into the air and catching it, over and over again.

The flat was silent for awhile. Hamish shrugged John off after a minute and focused on leaning on the wall without falling asleep. John sat heavily on the couch, head resting back, up towards the ceiling. Sherlock stood by the window, tapping his phone to his mouth and staring through the snowstorm.

Within ten minutes, Hamish felt he had catnapped and remembered suddenly that he was without shoes or socks, and they would be leaving soon. He peeled away from the wall and padded over to where his patched old sneakers were still beneath the coat rack, slipping them on and wiggling his heel for a better fit.

"Your brother's sending a car, right?" Hamish asked lowly, bracing against the wall.

"Yes, the car should be here soon," Sherlock answered from across the flat. Hamish nodded and rested his head on the plaster. He felt he could sleep for a year, but by pressing his injured cheek against the wall, he felt the pain was sharp enough to keep him awake.

"Car's here," Sherlock announced, startling Hamish from his pain-hazed revere. John came around the couch and pulled his own shoes on. Sherlock went through his usual routine, coat, scarf, settling into the role of enigma, his eyes flashing and catching Hamish's. They were alive with questions and assumptions and deductions. Hamish ducked. _How could you think him to ever be calm?_

Hamish avoided his gaze as much as possible. He felt embarrassed and battered and under the scrutiny of one such as Mr. Holmes, it was like all his faults had been amplified. But John was ushering them out the door and the three were heading downstairs and out into the snow bank London had become. Hamish kept his head down, out of the wind, but couldn't resist looking carefully up and down the street as they walked. No patrol car. No officer with a baton. The cold bit harder with only a single layer to protect him, and he was grateful the car was directly before them.

They were safely wrapped up in a black car before Hamish knew it. Blinking snow off of his eyelids and sandwiched between the flat mates as he was, it took him a minute to take notice of the man sitting in the seats facing them, limousine style car that it was. Hamish blinked at the man, noting his waxen complexion, calculating eyes, strangely foreboding but not scary atmosphere. Much like a strict, posh English father-type Hamish used to mock with his school friends, years ago. Hamish risked a glance at Sherlock, and saw him staring resolutely out the window.

"Good evening Mycroft," John greeted brusquely, looking apologetically at the other, silent, man.

Mycroft's eyes were fixed, however, on the teenager stuck between them. "Good doesn't quite touch it, John," the man replied, tone courteous. His gaze was starting to unnerve Hamish. "Nice to finally meet you," he inclined his head in Hamish's direction. "I am Mycroft Holmes." Hamish frowned a little and tried not to be too nervous, ignoring how stiff Sherlock was beside him.

"I'm, uh, Hamish," he nodded vaguely, attempted a bit of a smile, "nice to meet you too." He rewarded himself for not squeaking by looking quickly at the floor. His shoulder hurt like hell. Eventually, staring at the floor got boring, so Hamish switched to looking out John's window. He felt like Sherlock might catch his eyes if he looked out his. Driving through London like this, with the blow of the storm, allowed them to have a decent view of what little unlucky foot traffic there was.

In ten minutes they passed what looked to be a developing crime scene, the glow of red and blue lights attracting Sherlock's attention as well. Hamish leaned in to John, curious. The car slowed as it went around the small police barricade, allowing them a nice, long look.

Hamish's stomach dropped. He couldn't help gulping. It was the little corner store he'd crashed through a magazine rack and injured his collar at. The hole in the window where his father had hit was fairly large, and there was a noticeable gap in the group of police cars, as if there had been an ambulance.

Hamish knew London well. Very well. There were countless hospitals and clinics and specialty surgeries, he walked past them all the time. On this side of London, there were only two hospitals that had emergency rooms and sent out ambulances.

One was St. Barts, the other the University Medical Hospital. _Guess which one is closer to this store, _a voice crowed in his head, _guess which one they would've shipped your daddy into?_

Hamish closed his eyes and leaned back against his seat, hoping against hope he was wrong, or his father hadn't been to the hospital, or that he would be long gone by the time Hamish got there.

**A.N- I had to stop it before it got ridiculously long. This was going to be a kind of time-amorphous, disjuncted telling of Hamish, but uh, that didn't happen. Sorry. I don't understand why lots of you like it, there are at least 30 alerts here. I'm not a review whore. I rarely review what I love. Alerts mean just as much to me. Thanks so much for reading guys! I'll get on the next chapter soon. There will be slightly more fluff, dramatic fluff though.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N-Side note, I am now aware there is no British Child Protective Service but I am not going to go back and find the one reference I made to it two chapters ago. **

HAMISH

The total number of times Hamish has ever been at the hospital was 3, two of which had been when he was getting his immunizations at five and six, the last when he had broken his collar bone the first time. The right one. He shrugged his shoulder experimentally—it didn't _feel _broken, but then again he had quite a high pain tolerance. When John had splinted his left hand a few months ago, he had said he'd broken two fingers and split a knuckle, but Hamish had only gone to him because the swelling had gotten so bad he was afraid he had an infection of some kind—not because it had hurt too terribly.

He worried his lip as they got closer and closer to St. Barts. He cursed that the little hospital was so nearby to the storefront he'd injured himself at—he decided that if he ever left 221B Baker street again he would split as fast as possible to a new part of London. He got nothing but bad luck here, it seemed.

_Bad luck? You call free trips to the hospital, food, and a warm apartment bad luck?_

He flicked some long hairs out of his eyes irritably and glared at Mycroft Holmes's left shoe. He tried not to think of anything that could further how miserable this evening was turning out to be. He sighed, _wish I was dead, _he thought absently, _it'd be much easier. _

Then he started fantasizing that he really was dead, and this constant chase of trial and error, failure and success, mercy and cruelty was the afterlife. He frankly scared the living hell out of himself until the sleek car finally pulled to a stop and Sherlock nudged him out of the car.

In the A&E, about fourteen people mulled in the waiting area. Three people were lined up at the nurse's desk to write up their various maladies. A red-faced woman at the front was snapping in and out of Welsh at an unimpressed looking receptionist.

John held back uncertainly, scanning the scurrying lab coats for this 'Molly' Hamish had heard of. Behind them, Sherlock and Mycroft were quietly arguing. He caught a baritone vocalization of his name and ducked his head slightly. With his good hand holding the winter jacket together, Hamish could naught but hold still and toe the floor uncomfortably.

"Ah," John started forward, holding Hamish's injured arm lightly. "There she is." Hamish heard the quick, fluid steps of Sherlock following them behind and Mycroft's ambling tap-tap of the umbrella. The whole bunch were coming along for the ride then, lovely.

"Evening," a pale, nervous woman greeted them at the doors that would emit them into the hospital proper. Her eyes flicked over John and Hamish, focused briefly on Sherlock and with a small dawning of horror Mycroft, behind.

"Hello Molly," John greeted amiably. "This is Hamish."

"Ah, yeah, the one Sherlock told me about," Molly smiled nicely at him, and Hamish decided he liked her. She seemed slightly unsure of herself in their company, but she also came off as very sweet, perhaps a bit of a pushover. Overall, she was the kind of person Hamish would've asked for money on the street and gotten twenty pounds and a hat in return.

Molly took the lead as they walked deeper into the internal structure of the hospital. They stopped at the lifts as Molly excused the chaos that was the A&E, "There was a pile-up down the street, the whole staff is completely overrun. It wasn't that bad until the families showed up—they make it worse."

Hamish opened his mouth to ask about a police officer being admitted, but second-guessed himself and decided not to mention it. Speak of the devil, and all that.

They took the elevator to the third floor. "This room is used generally for the residency students to practice on, but it still works. With what's going on downstairs, this machine is the only one not being used, and they don't have any proper records on it because of how often classes come in, so we shouldn't be found out."

Hamish hummed a bit nervously as the five of them piled into a room made up of mostly large pieces of twisty metal and a cold tray table that he dearly hoped he wasn't about to lay on in the center.

Molly pulled a sheet of butcher's paper over the table and patted it, "Come sit down Hamish, and we'll get your arm all laid out for the x-ray. It'll only take about five minutes."

Hamish sighed and went to the Doctor. She helped him with his jacket and unbuttoned his sling, holding it in place until he was situated down on the table before slipping it entirely off and gently positioning his arm on the table. Hamish winced when she pulled on his arm, but the pain was starting to disintegrate under how cold he was. Molly, after checking the positioning of one big camera, draped a heavy bolt of plastic-type tarp over him. He arched an eyebrow at her. "It's to prevent the machine from accidentally x-raying the rest of your body, and protect against the radiation." He nodded, unable to chat because of how firmly he had sealed his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. The tarp-thing helped defend against some of the cold, at least.

"Okay, just give me a few minutes to take this x-ray—don't move, whatever you do." Hamish gave another tiny nod, heard a general pattering of exiting footsteps, and was somewhat alone in the room. He closed his eyes, feeling his chest push up against the tarp, the warm heat of pain in his shoulder, the cold in his toes. Exhale—felt the tug on old scars across his ribs, the shrinking of his bones and muscles, of a lack of weight he hadn't had in years.

There were some loud shutters, three loud bangs like gunshots. Hamish kept his eyes closed, holding his breath, compared the noise to the sound of angry gangsters and domestic fights turned ugly. He finally took a deep breath of air between the seconds when the shuttering and the screeching and gunshots were off.

It must've been about a minute or two, but to him it felt like seconds, and then the sound of the door had him opening his eyes and relaxing his face.

Molly helped him back into his sling and silently slipped the coat over his shoulders. Hamish clutched it tight, a nice warmth from the cold of the table.

"We can go to one of the empty exam rooms," Molly volunteered once they were back in the hallway. "I'll go and develop the x-ray right now, but while you're waiting..."

"That sounds fine, thanks Molly," John smiled. The woman ducked her head and took them around a few hallways until she found the door she was looking for and unlocked it with a master key. Inside was a nondescript examination room, with an old balance-scale to one end, some ear examiners pegged to the wall and a small desk with boxes of bandages and tongue depressors in view.

Hamish collapsed in the chair in the corner by the door. It was much, much warmer in this room and his head was starting to tip from the sudden wash of heat. John pulled out the chair under the desk and situated himself nearby. Hamish fixed his tired eyes on the popcorn ceiling.

In the swelling silence his thoughts got so loud Hamish broke it himself. Despite his tiredness, he wanted to pace or listen to absent prattling—anything but being left alone in his own mind.

"I don't think it's broken," he told the room.

John shifted, fixing his distant gaze on the boy, who didn't notice. "Oh?"

Hamish shrugged, "Nope. If I'd broken it it'd have felt like the last time—this doesn't hurt as much."

John sighed, the chair creaked under his weight as he moved thoughtfully. "Still, it may be fractured. Better safe than sorry."

Time must have passed faster than Hamish had guessed, because Molly made her entrance at that exact moment, holding a manila file folder. "Well, here you go," she cheerfully flipped on the white light screen and hooked the picture to it. The stark white bones of Hamish's clavicle glittered—not broken then.

John stood to inspect, muttering fraught with anatomical terminology to Molly. He seemed to concur, "Not even a fracture."

Hamish immediately shrugged out of the sling, leaving the jacket hanging on the chair. His shoulder screamed abuse at him as he shook the blood back into his wrist, but he staunchly refused to listen to it. Just before he could re-dress himself, John grasped his shoulder and examined it closely, probing in just the most painful places.

Hamish dug his fingernails into his palms and bit his lip until the chapped skin cracked. John finally released him, "You've bruised yourself to the bone. Judging by how much pain you're in, you've sprained a tendon. You'll be in a lot of pain for a few days."

Hamish shrugged the coat on fully. "Well that's unfortunate," he muttered. The doctor didn't look the least bit happy.

"You need to _not _aggravate this shoulder," John snapped grumpily. "That means not exerting that arm at all or else you'll find you can no longer move your fingers from all the pain you're in."

Hamish offered John his first smirk of the evening, "Anything you say Doc."

"No, Hamish, I don't think you understand," John's eyes were hard and serious; "You need to stay with us until you can move your arm. You could end up losing some motor function if you push yourself."

At this point Molly shuffled nervously and made to leave. Sherlock tried to usher Mycroft out as well, but the man refused.

"This isn't your business," the Detective hissed.

"Oh but it _is," _the man set his face placidly and remained exactly where he was.

Hamish was busy glaring at the floor, as he'd found he couldn't quite meet John's eyes.

"I thought I had a right to make my own choices," he said, calling John out on their unspoken agreement.

"Yes, Hamish," the Doctor rubbed his face tiredly, "that was before you told us about...about what you said at home. I can't just let you back out there, alone, injured, if someone is out to get you."

"You _can,_" Hamish growled, "you're just _not going to._"

"Believe it or not I'm actually a pretty good person—I'm not just going to drop you back onto the street!"

Hamish flushed under the jacket, several vicious barbs coming to mind, but shirtless and wearing a borrowed jacket as he was, he found it quite impossible to do anything retort at least somewhat civilly.

"I'll stay," Hamish grumbled, "only, _only _until it's healed. Then I leave. No questions asked." He made eye contact this time and sorely regretted it. John had a strangely commanding look on his face.

"Did you turn of-age overnight, or did I miss the part where you've become emancipated?"

"Excuse _you,_" the teenager snapped, anger curling in his stomach, "I'm not your anything, you can't tell me what to do."

"I just brought you to a hospital, you're wearing my jacket, it seems like you're quite under my protection, and no, I can't order you to do anything Hamish, but I thought you respected me enough to trust in what I say!"

Hamish set his mouth, physically restraining himself from screaming at this man who was encroaching on his hard-won independence and simultaneously fighting the shameful warmth started deep in the center of his chest.

John whipped around to his flatmate. "Sherlock!" John exclaimed, "Are you just going to stand there and be useless?"

The Detective's mouth twitched. "Oh, I wasn't aware I was part of this…conversation."

"Yes, you are," John retorted hotly. "Go on, lay down the logic for him like you usually do. He won't listen to me."

That was just too domestic for Hamish to listen to. He flung the door open and marched out into the hallway, where Molly was rubbing her wrists, looking stressed out. Hamish ignored her gaze and continued down the hall towards the life. The sound of rushing feet told him he was being followed, but he kept his pace the same.

"Hamish, where are you going?"

"I thought you wanted to take me back the apartment, house-arrest and all, for my _arm_." Hamish made sure to shake it angrily in John's direction, just to irritate him. He punched the button to activate the lift. The doors dinged open immediately. The four of them, sans Molly, piled inside.

"Wait!" She proffered a slip of paper through the doors, "A prescription, for the pain. It should be pretty bad, um…"

"Yeah thanks Molly," John said distractedly, glaring at Hamish. Sherlock snatched the paper from the fingers and Mycroft pressed the button to close the doors. The poor woman waved meekly as they disappeared from sight.

Hamish was quietly fuming, and the mad-dogging from John wasn't helping his temper. Sherlock activated the button for level two.

"John," he handed the prescription over. The Doctor read it off and sighed, running his fingers through his hair.

"See," he waved it in front of Hamish's nose. "These will make you sleepy as hell; you won't be able to—"

"I already said I was going back with you, could you _not?_" Hamish shouted, shoving himself into the wall of the lift and hunching his shoulders, trying to make his body small.

The heat in his chest was not completely trounced by his stinging pride. Hamish narrowed his eyes and stared at the lift buttons until the doors opened, and then he followed Mycroft out. The party was very, very quiet.

Sherlock could almost feel John's crackling intensity. He wanted to make a sarcastic comment, _perhaps playing daddy is a get-up you don't want to practice, John, _but thought his nose looked very fine where it was and didn't relish the thought of having it broken. As it was, he kept a few steps behind the former soldier and consequentially closer to his infuriating brother and the sulking teenager.

He turned to Mycroft, asking him again, with his body language this time, _leave, now. _

Mycroft shrugged and smiled as if this were all a pleasant activity in a park. _Ah, but who will drive you home?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes disgustedly and looked over his brother's shoulder, walking slightly backwards now, to look at Hamish. The teen had his face trailed straight at the ground, his old, tatty sneakers dragging on the linoleum. Sherlock processed his exhaustion, embarrassment, fury and resentment in those steps. The trade-marked self-loathing was there too. That was definitely one of Sherlock's favorite traits about Hamish, he had a knowledge of his presence that Sherlock rarely saw in anyone. People tended to blow their positions so out of proportion or, like Molly, downgrade them. Hamish knew just where he was at, and he blamed himself almost completely for it.

Fascinating. It made for a somber fifteen year old, a unique specimen within his population.

Sherlock turned on his heel and crashed into a fast-moving body, sending him stumbling over his long limbs to catch his balance. He planted two feet firmly on the ground half a terrifying second later and flicked his head up, flipping his hair out of his eyes and glaring. The man who had crashed into him, (because Sherlock was observant, he didn't just wander into people) had stopped dead and was looking a cross between apologetic and murderous.

The Detective noted his pronounced favoring of the right left, a completely gauzed arm, and three sets of stitches on his face. He wondered absently if any across his torso had ripped because of him.

"Sorry," the man hissed between his teeth. "Didn't see you. Quite eager to get home."

Mycroft stepped up to Sherlock and examined the man as well. "Oh, it's no problem," his brother supplied, "he's fine." Sherlock's eyes raced over the man's face and countenance, cataloguing, deducing.

A woman stepped up to the man, taking his uninjured arm in her thin hands. She had her hair done up in a tight bun, it was a flaxen brown with streaks of badly dyed blonde. She held her tongue between her teeth and hardly spared her spouse a glance, looking intently instead at the two brothers.

"It's alright," she said, face flat and expressionless. "He's fine. Come on," she pulled on the man's arm and they went back towards the lifts, the man leaning heavily on the woman. Mycroft tutted, "What people you meet in a hospital," he sighed and tapped his umbrella. Then he noticed Sherlock, who was staring down the hall.

"Where," Sherlock pointed out after a moment of silence, "is the boy?"

Indeed, the hallway was devoid of any sulking teens. Mycroft bristled, unexpectedly thrown off. Sherlock was already moving down the hall, steps echoing off the walls.

At the middle T-section, where a darkened alcove between two offices was blocked by unused equipment, Hamish had rooted himself in the back, against the right wall. He had his eyes firmly shut and was focused on breathing in and out of his nose, trying not to panic too much. Sherlock leaned impassively against the corner, somewhat guarding the alcove, until the lift doors shut.

Then he moved a heart monitor out of the way and motioned for the boy. "They're gone, Hamish," Sherlock told him. Mycroft listened nearby, raising his head at the sound of his brother's baritone softening.

"…How did you know?" a quieter voice asked.

"You did inherit their genes," Sherlock responded dryly. "And I believe we passed the scene of the crime…a broken window? You certainly didn't go through it."

"They're gone?"

"Down the lift, out of the hospital as fast as they could," Sherlock inclined his head. Mycroft felt a small twinge of disbelief. His brother was being positively…warm.

Hamish breathed out raggedly. There was a muffled crash as something tipped over, and then Hamish was hurriedly extricating himself from various equipment. Sherlock quickly placed the heart monitor back into its slot and looked the teenager over. Hamish was staring with hollow eyes down the hallway.

Mycroft almost slipped on his umbrella at what happened next.

Sherlock put his hand at the back of Hamish's neck and turned him gently around, taking him up towards the prescription office around the corner that John had disappeared to minutes ago. The boy and Detective walked in step, and as they continued past Mycroft, the older man saw Sherlock's hand move to the teen's shoulder, giving him less control over the boy's movements.

Comfort, then.

Sherlock Holmes was offering physical comfort to the homeless teenager that lived in his flat.

Mycroft stayed behind as the two walked on and tapped his umbrella against the ground in thought.

Then he took out his mobile, and made a note to Anthea.

_Draw up some connections with an adoption agency, kid already in mind. Need a signature to validate it. _

He sent out another rapid fire text as he walked towards the lift, umbrella hooked over his arm, _also, send second car to Barts._

**A.N- **Well, I finally finished it. Failure that I am, I wrote one version of this chapter, hated it, wrote another and kept it on my little portable laptop that I take to school, and didn't take it onto my home computer until today. Sorry for the wait. Now that I'm past this bitch of a chapter I can move on to disjointed narrative. Don't worry, this isn't supposed to be a touchy-feely sort of story about them getting used to each other. I wanted to write a bunch of individual drabbles about my Hamish to serve my own desires for Parent!lock, and that is what I'm going to do. So, after this, the timeline will change and I will skip to a Christmas-themed sort of chapter, or maybe the one where Hamish takes out Anderson. Would you rather see that?

Anyway, I love you for reviewing and alerting this little whumpy story. Thanks so much guys. No idea when next chapter will be up. I'll try to be more punctual.


End file.
